It is also set down that brandy and water, as usual in this history, followed the oysters; but we are not told if any of those coachmen ever handled the ribbons again, or if Mr. Solomon Pell spent his declining days in the infirmary. In fact, there are not many chapters in Charles Dickens' works in which the knife and fork do not play prominent parts. The food is, for the most part, simple and homely; the seed sown in England by the fairy _Ala_ had hardly begun to germinate at the time the novels were written. Still there is, naturally, a suspicion of _Ala_ at the very commencement of _Little Dorrit_, the scene being laid in the Marseilles prison, where Monsieur Rigaud feasts off Lyons sausage, veal in savoury jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good claret, the while his humble companion, Signor John Baptist, has to content himself with stale bread, through reverses at gambling with his fellow prisoner. After that, there is no mention of a "square meal" until we get to Mr. Casby's, the "Patriarch." "Everything about the patriarchal household," we are told, "promoted quiet digestion"; and the dinner mentioned began with "some soup, some fried soles, a butter-boat of shrimp sauce, and a dish of potatoes." Rare old Casby! "Mutton, a steak, and an apple pie"--and presumably cheese--furnished the more solid portion of the banquet, which appears to have been washed down with porter and sherry wine, and enlivened by the inconsequent remarks of "Mr. F.'s Aunt." In _Great Expectations_ occurs the celebrated banquet at the Chateau Gargery on Christmas Day, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and greens, a pair of roast stuffed fowls, a handsome mince pie, and a plum-pudding. The absence of the savoury pork-pie, and the presence of tar-water in the brandy are incidents at that banquet familiar enough to Sir Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., and other close students of Dickens, whose favourite dinner-dish would appear to have been a fowl, stuffed or otherwise, roast or boiled. In _Oliver Twist_ we get casual mention of oysters, sheep's heads, and a rabbit pie, with plenty of alcohol; but the bill of fare, on the whole, is not an appetising one. The meat and drink at the Maypole Hotel, in _Barnaby Rudge_, would appear to have been deservedly popular; and the description of Gabriel Varden's breakfast is calculated to bring water to the most callous mouth: